


Tell If You Know

by Mylos



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, BROT3, BrOT4, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Interrogation, Prompt Fill, Team as Family, attempted humor, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylos/pseuds/Mylos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the Musketeers were interrogated for information, and one time they spilled it all freely. Prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Even to death"

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago to help myself get back into writing for these boys. It's minutely experimental in regard to writing style (in a few places) and as such may not work for everyone. But each section is different and most are written using traditional syntax, so I don't think it will fuss readers overly-much.

* * *

_**"Even to death"** _

-

Break. Later he would break. Crumble into ashes and dust _(blood and snow)_.  
  
Later.  
  
But not now _(not now)_.

Ahora no.

Pas maintenant.  
  
Two words, concise in grouping and densely-edged. Malleable enough to shove into hidden corners and scared spaces.  
  
He took them up. Smoothed them over his tongue and swallowed them back. Made them replicate and spin. Fill his mind to overflowing. _(Overflowing, spilling, seeping darkly through cracks.)_  
  
_Not now._  
  
_Not now._  
  
Cracking bloody lips open in a brilliant smile, his teeth flashed and his eyes blinked brightly, even as his heart remonstrated. _(Remonstrated. Broke. Was smashed and torn asunder.)_  
  
_Not now!_  
  
His grin widened.  
  
A hand, cold and sadistic, gnarled itself into his sweaty hair, yanking it back. Stretching his neck to create ample space for the knife point that pressed against it. The chair-back he was bound to jabbed a line into his shoulder blades. The rope enfolding his wrists coiled tautly into his skin.  
  
His arms went numb.  
  
(Numb and dying.)  
  
(Numb and _dead_.)  
  
He laughed, blinking away the afterimage of the pendent of St. Jude.  
  
The pendent of St. Jude and the too-familiar neck scarf, and the way they'd been dangled before him (stained with red).  
  
(Flecked with blood.)  
  
_Not now._ Not _now_.  
  
Above him, a rugged face tsked and growled, cruel lips hazy and out of focus in the half-light. "Didn't you hear what I said?" it shouted, punctuating the sentence with a stinging yank that burned into his scalp. "Your brothers are dead!"  
  
(Dead.)  
  
He laughed again. _(Not now.)_  
  
"You are fool. A simpleton," the shouter continued. "You're protecting no one. Don't you understand? Your silence serves you no more!  Your silence serves you _nothing_."  
  
The grip in his hair shook. A cold blazing sensation spread smoothly down his neck.

Through the protest of his skin and bones, he welcomed it.  
  
The stretch of his teeth widened.  
  
His eyes sparkled as he attempted to swallow, savoring the exposure of his throat and the way the blade sent a thin stripe of liquid over his skin as he shivered _(bleeding into the calm and cold)_. Licking his lips, he loosened his jaw with relief. "Will it get me killed?" he rasped, tongue tasting the rust and dust _(death wine and bone ash)_ of disuse.  
  
The fist binding his hair released him, letting go just long enough to knock ringingly into his temple, then grip him anew. " _Fool!_ If you continue to persist in this silence then yes, your death is a certainty."  
  
With a sigh from deep within his chest, he closed his eyes _(quiet and still)_. "Then it serves me fine," he said, and swallowed. The words tasted like water.  
  
The resultant roar flashed up like lighting.  
  
Abruptly released from the strained angle, his head snapped forward violently _(so violently, such welcome violence)_. Knuckles crashed into his cheekbone, sending him sideways in his chair. A ripple of pain undulated upward from the jarring impact between his shoulder and the floor, inciting a swirl of stars to spin dizzily into the world behind his eyelids.

Stars that coalesced and scattered brightly with the crack of pistol fire. The clank and bang of rusty doors. And the echo of familiar voices _(already dead)_.  
  
(Already dead.)  
  
"Aramis."  
  
The voice was close. Near his ear and steady. Like Athos.  
  
(Like a dream.)  
  
"Aramis."  
  
A thumb. A finger. The pad of something gentle -- stroked across his eyebrow.  
  
"Damn the lot of them. What the hell'd they do to him?"  
  
"Will he not wake up?"  
  
"Aramis." The first voice again. Patient. Steady. The stoking pressure shifted to his cheekbone, long fingers bracing the loose curve of his skull. "Aramis. Open your eyes now. Open your eyes."  
  
As if in a haze, he did. Finding a world awash in dull greys and soft shadows. He was on his back. The sensation of pins and needles spreading like fire down his arms, jabbing into his fingertips and up through his neck. Vibrant and severe (like life).  
  
Athos knelt over him, looking blue and translucent.  
  
(A phantom.)  
  
(A demon.)  
  
Blue and translucent. Framed by a stone ceiling Aramis knew too well.  
  
Near his shoulder, Porthos swam murkily into view, frowning gravely, earring glinting and wavering like a mirage. "Doesn't look like he quite sees us yet," he rumbled. A distant-sounding rumble, like a murmur buried under water (under earth).  
  
Then a third voice. "Porthos. Athos." D'Artagnan knelt, sounding serious, appearing serious. The shine of fettered light off his pale leather blended strangely with the specks of dust floating out of the shadows. Making him look solid (real).  
  
(Real?)  
  
In d'Artagnan's hand dangled the pendant of St. Jude. Pendant of desperate and lost causes. Porthos's pendent. Slung with Athos's scarf.  
  
_(Flecked with blood)_.  
  
D'Artagnan's voice lowered, words whispered into swirling dust, echoing loudly despite the attempted softness. "I think he thought..."

The thumb on his cheek tightened over the sore skin. 

 _(I think he thought...)_  
  
Aramis blinked and shuddered. A sudden tremble moved into his chest, filling the hollow spaces.  
  
_Not now._  
  
_(Now.)_  
  
He shuddered and he didn't stop.  
  
"Aramis." Athos touched his shirt, palm hovering delicately above his breastbone as it fluttered. Then, not delicately. Palm and fingers flattening firmly over the juncture of his rib bones.  
  
_(Living flesh to living flesh.)_  
  
Athos's other hand curled behind his neck cautiously, joining with Porthos's to ease him upright. The world tilted and spun, steadying abruptly as he was brought against Athos's chest. The sensation dizzying, like finally stepping off a boat he'd been riding through a storm, legs unprepared for solid ground.  
  
He felt leather under his chin. Smelled wine and dust (and worry). Felt Athos's hand brace the crown of his pulsing head. Porthos' gentle palm smoothing up and down his spine.  
  
The thunder of his own heart and the echoing thump of Athos's. _(Athos's.)_  
  
Inhaling into straining lungs, a sound broke out of him. Like the awakening of everything. He caught his breath and clenched his eyes as the sound came again, then again, and tried to bury it in Athos's shoulder.  
  
"Easy," mumbled Porthos. "Easy, Aramis. Easy now."

 _(Your silence serves you nothing.)_  
  
Athos's fingers moved, scratching gently over his scalp. Warmly and gently. (Without shiver. Without violence. But fiercely. _Fiercely, like Musketeers._ ) Consistently and repetitively threading through his hair as the shuddering slowed and the world gained solid form.  
  
Aramis breathed into Athos's shoulder (steadily, steadily) and stitch by stitch gathered the drifting pieces of his voice up together in his chest.  
  
"Aramis?" prompted Athos.  
  
"It's all right," Aramis answered, closing his eyes, then screwing them up tight as his spine bowed forward, Athos's leather flush to his forehead as he gasped. To his own ears his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "I'm... It's..."  
  
Porthos's hand paused on his back. "No," he refuted softly, timbre tempered and full of promise. "You're not, and it isn't."  
  
Aramis's breath hitched, the sound breaking anew. Porthos's hand resumed its motion.  
  
"But it will be."

x


	2. "They wanted you to become a nun?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stylistically, this one's a touch more sedate and straightforward than the last, and though I don't know that it does it well or effectively, it plays with a very different level of angst.

 

* * *

_**"They wanted you to become a nun?"** _

-

"Hang on, now," interjected Porthos. "You never told me that."

Aramis lifted a hand to rub an itch along his jawline, dragging Athos's shackled wrist along with it. "Didn't I?"

"Never. I think I would have remembered." Porthos stretched his legs out, the bindings that coupled them forcing Aramis to uncross his ankles. "How's it you got to know?" Porthos pressed, leaning forward to stare at Athos.

"We were in a convent under siege at the time." Athos shrugged. "It was relevant to our surroundings." Sitting back, he blew out a weary breath, causing the front of his hair to flutter lightly. "However, gentlemen, I do believe that we may have allowed ourselves to be drawn away from the matter at hand."

Aramis grimaced with exaggerated politeness. "Indeed we have, Athos, you're absolutely correct. We've neglected our visitor." Lifting his eyebrows, he stared upwards at the glowering menace before them. "Would it be possible, kind sir, for you to remind us all, ah, what was the question?"

"There was no question," the biting voice replied, kicking at Aramis's boot. "I _commanded_ you to tell me where Father Amiot is being guarded."

Porthos hummed as though awakening to the recollection while Aramis shifted his foot back to settle the pinch of the chain.

"Father Amiot?" Athos mused thoughtfully, adding just the right amount of aristocratic nicety. "Is that the name you asked about before? Amiot?" He stared upwards, then glanced at Aramis with creased eyebrows.

"Was it Amoit?" Aramis repeated, face set in contemplative seriousness. "No, no, I don't think so. Though I do know of a Father Aleni at the chapel of St. Sébastien, just a few leagues outside of Paris. From the Italian patriarchy, I believe."

Athos shook his head, a negating noise emerging through his tongue. He bent his knee up, folding his hands in a way that trapped Aramis's wrist against his leg. "You're thinking of Father André, under the diocese in Rouen."

"Father André? Is he Italian? I had no idea."

"Nah," denied Porthos, speaking over both of them. "Father Alger was Italian, remember? Served at the chapel of St. Vincent, but he changed his name."

"He did change his name - you're correct - but I thought he was English." Athos leaned forward to frown past Aramis. "Do we even know any Italian priests?"

"Don't think so," answered Porthos. "Not if Father Alger was English. He's the last of all we know that might be Italian. Can't think of another."

"The priest is not _English_ or _Italian_ ," their visitor growled, looming closer.

Aramis frowned. "Not Italian? Then what have we been talking about?"

Porthos bumped Aramis's shoulder while tilting forwards to speak to Athos. "He wanted to know about Aramis being a priest, didn't he? But I can't think of why. Aramis has never been to Italy... that I know of."

"Not Aramis— _Amiot!_ " their visitor shouted, stomping on the chain between Athos' and Aramis's wrists, causing them both to bow forward.

"Amoit?" mumbled Athos, voice as casual as could be despite the strained position. "That can't be right."

"No, of course not. It doesn't sound Italian at all," Aramis agreed.

Porthos cleared his throat loudly, with hardly any evidence of anger. "Oi, did I ever tell you both that the first Italian man I ever met was in the court?"

Aramis twisted his head, tugging lightly on the chain connecting them as he panted. "An Italian man in the Court of Miracles?" he breathed. "No joking?"

Nodding, Porthos opened his mouth to expound, just as the chain between Athos and Aramis was released and a loud growl descended from above. An angry fist followed after, smashing directly across Porthos's face.

Porthos folded, tumbling sideways with the blow. Dragged by their link, Aramis folded with him, causing the chains to tug at Athos, who remained resolutely upright.

A hair's breadth later the heavy door to their cell was slammed and locked as their company deserted them.

"All right?" asked Aramis, pulling up on Porthos's shoulder and helping him settle back against the wall. Movements deft, cautious about tangling their manacles.

"Smarts a bit." Porthos grinned, the bruising mark on his cheekbone dimpling with it.

Aramis laughed.

From the other side of Athos, a frustrated sound finally emerged. "If I haven't reminded you of it lately - all three of you are insane," muttered d'Artagnan.

"Perhaps," agreed Athos after a moment, the corner of his lip lifting as he worked around the manacles to pat reassuringly at d'Artagnan's leg.

Leaning forward, Porthos eyed the boy unsympathetically. "Then again," Porthos reminded. "It was you who chose to come with us. Could have had the life of a farmer and all that. And who's'it went running off after that Red Guard last week? Nearly called him out in the middle of town? The Cardinal and God and half the city watching?"

"Touché," d'Artagnan conceded, tugging lightly on his chains. "I suppose it could be said I do have only myself to blame."

Athos huffed out what seemed nearly a laugh while Porthos and Aramis chuckled.

Resigned to his lot, d'Artagnan sighed. Closing his eyes, he slumped back into the brick and drew his knee up - the knee that wouldn't drag Athos's with it - and tried to get comfortable.

A second later his eyes opened again. "Aramis," he said seriously. "Did your parents really intend for you to become a priest?"

x


	3. "We've been getting on well, but I wouldn't say friends, exactly."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrogation by Constance. Season one.

* * *

_**"We've been getting on well, but I wouldn't say friends, exactly."** _

-

"Stop it.” Constance glared around the table. “Don't give me that. Not this time. Of course you know where he is. Why not just tell me?"  
  
"Constance.” Aramis leaned forward, donning his best conciliatory expression. “We would if we could, but the orders came from the captain, and we..."  
  
"Quiet you, I’m talking to Athos.” Her eyes flashed as she dismissed him and swung her gaze around. “Do you really expect me to believe you'd let Captain Treville send him off somewhere without your say so?"  
  
"Well, he is the captain,” explained Athos wryly. “It isn't precisely up to us. That's what being a captain means."  
  
"Without even telling you where?—And you can stow that tone. I'm not a fool."  
  
Porthos held a palm up, open-faced. "That's the last thing any of us would accuse you of being," he interjected, tossing Athos his own sideways glare.  
  
Beating him out, Constance glowered, folding her arms pointedly while long seconds ticked away via the pendulum clock on her mantel.

Feeling a sudden thirst, Porthos attempted a dry cough to remove the tickle from his throat—quietly—while the three began to squirm.

"Then why won't you trust me?" Constance enunciated slowly.  
  
Wary of the table’s dressings, Athos leaned forward on his elbows. "It isn't a matter of our trust in you,” he assured seriously—Porthos could honestly not recall ever having been as relieved to hear the level of even sincerity Athos struck with his voice—“It's a matter of our captain's trust in us. We have our orders, and d'Artagnan has his. It is not within our bounds to tell you what they are, and it is our requirement to follow our own."  
  
Constance scoffed. “Of course. Until he shows up on my doorstep in some pathetic costume, claiming that I’m his mistress and trying to kiss me again.”  
  
Aramis cleared his throat delicately, in a way that made Porthos's fingers itch to cover his mouth. “Would that really be so terrible?”  
  
The ensuing flame from Constance’s eyes should have sent flumes of ash raining from the sky.

“Fine then,” she said icily, gathering the dessert plates off the table and onto a tray with none of them touched. “Just don’t expect me to keep playing hostess to you lot in the meantime.”

As a final act of retribution, she yanked the wine bottle from Athos’s loose fingers and marched away with all of it to the kitchen.  
  
Porthos slumped the moment the door was closed. “I hate to admit it, but I would have felt worse eating that anyway. Why’s it only she can make me feel guilty like this?”  
  
Sighing, Aramis ran fingers into his hair. “For how often we’ve appropriated her home and imposed upon her considerable grace… Do you ever think it might not be better if Treville just went ahead and appointed her to the regiment?”  
  
Athos looked at him askance, narrowing his eyes for a long moment. “Sometimes I can’t tell—are you serious, or are you joking?”  
  
“That’s what people say about you,” muttered Porthos.

Matter-of-factly, Aramis shrugged. “I’ve seen her with a sword.”  
  
Athos lifted an eyebrow.   
  
“With some practice and experience… She’s quite a natural, actually.”  
  
“I believe you.” Sitting back, Athos scrubbed a tired hand over his jaw and reached for his cup before remembering it was empty. “Unfortunately, you believe in a world far less cruel than this one, my friend.”  
  
“No harm in believing,” said Aramis.  
  
The door to the kitchen opened and Constance walked back out.  Glaring at all of them, she set the wine back on the table in front of Aramis with a distinctive thunk before leaving again.

He graced them with half a smile. “And clearly it has its advantages.” He gestured vaguely to the bottle. Lifting it in a sedate grip, he tipped it towards the others in salute—expression trying to be teasing, but eyes somber. “To Constance, for her worthy honor," he said.  "And to d’Artagnan. May he return from his obligation swiftly and safely, to a world less cruel.” He took a long drink then set it down, and after a moment of contemplation, passed the bottle off.

x


	4. "Yeah... I oughta work on that."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series. In a relatively simpler time for our Musketeers, Athos and Aramis worry while Porthos navigates a precarious situation ... and a head injury.

* * *

_**"Porthos."** _

_**"Yeah... I oughta work on that."** _

-

Porthos stood at attention. His gaze fixed upon the far wall. His hat held circumspectly, folded beneath his arm in the practiced manner of military gentlemen.

The thin trail of blood seeping down from his hairline at the back of his neck was completely ignored. By himself as well as the cardinal.

As was the way the world before him occasionally dipped and swirled.

Instead, he focused on the voice echoing off the walls — focused on the words — while maintaining the grit of his own jaw.

" _Illegal!_ _Dueling!"_ the Cardinal was saying. Pacing across the space between Porthos and his own desk with the drawn-up pretense of moral consternation. "An edict which the king's own Musketeers seem incapable of understanding!"

In truth, it was the pacing of cat before a cornered mouse — anticipatory and amused. The cat waiting for the mouse to make _One Wrong Move._

Porthos kept his face respectfully expressionless as the cardinal continued.

"The sheer _unforgivable_ thickness demonstrated in regard to this law, by one _purported_ to be amongst Captain Treville's most favored — most _competent_ — simply astounds me. It is impossible for me to fathom how your captain can continue to insist that one such as _you_ should be called upon with trust."

At that, Porthos lifted his chin a fraction.

The cardinal stopped before his desk and watched him.

Watched him, and waited, while the silence grew distended.

"By the merciful god," the man eventually muttered, rolling his eyes at the ornate ceiling. Then, rounding on Porthos, roared. "Have you no answers for me?!"

Refusing to blink, Porthos held his head steady. "Forgive me, Chief Minister," he said neutrally, in as formal a tone as he could manage. "I have not yet heard a question."

Richelieu snorted, rounding again to lift his eyes once more towards the heavens before hardening a calm glare in Porthos's direction. "Very well. If I must spell it out. Somewhere in that mangled Musketeer mind of yours, have you, Porthos _du Vallon_ , seen fit to take note of the fact that dueling is illegal?"

"Yes, Your Eminence."

"And that the unequivocal consequence for involving yourself in such an activity is death?"

"Yes, Your Eminence."

"Why then am I standing here wasting my time allowing you the opportunity to defend yourself when clearly it would have been better spent by simply ordering you and your compatriots to the gallows?"

Porthos cleared his throat — delicately — while maintaining a carefully blank façade. "I imagine, Chief Minister, that in your wisdom, you are aware of the possibility that you may have been misinformed about my involvement in any such action."

The cardinal paused, going completely still.

"Misinformed?"

Porthos felt the temptation to let his gaze flicker, but he resisted, solidifying his stance and keeping his expression restrained, despite the pounding in his head.

" _Misinformed?_ " the cardinal repeated, the word amplified by a scoffing, incredulous tone. "You claim you understand the law, and by the insignia you wear on your shoulder, you claim the honor to defend it. Yet, you were overheard — by _several_ witnesses, I would remind you — to be demanding satisfaction by the tip of your sword. This, after one of my — quite more reputable — Red Guards astutely observed and discovered you to be deceitfully dealing in a game of chance you had engaged in in good faith. You were then seen — by several _more_ witnesses — commencing to engage the challenge you had issued. A conflict which of course grew compounded by the rowdy interference of your seconds, turning the entire affair into the largest disturbance the good patrons of the Rai d'Or have ever seen!"

For a very small moment — very small — Porthos wanted to smile.

Restraining himself, he did not.

Just barely.

Richelieu strode forward, crossing the boundary into his space, continuing to eye him with a predatory gaze. "What have you to say to that, Monsieur _Musketeer_? Or was I … _misinformed_?"

For the briefest of seconds, Porthos allowed himself a sideways glance, observing in greater detail the cardinal's raised eyebrows and toying glare. Then smoothly returned the path of his vision to the wall on the far side of the room.

A sensation of dizziness surged through him as consequence for the minor breach, and he bit the inside of his cheek, breathing tightly through his nose to keep himself from swaying.

The blood at the back of his neck was seeping deeper below his collar. It felt tacky and sticky against his skin as it oozed over the knob at the top of his backbone.

"I would ask to meet my accusers," he finally answered, tamping down the dizziness. "And my named opponent."

There came a pause.

Again, Porthos let his eye-line flicker, more purposely this time — just long enough to meet Richelieu's stare and gauge the reaction.

"Your _accusers?_ " the cardinal repeated, with a note of challenge and just a hint of annoyance.

"My accusers," Porthos repeated, formally and tonelessly. "The witnesses who have stated to have seen such an event, and those of your … _reputable …_ Red Guards."

He was cautious enough, he thought, to keep any sneer or sardonic inflection away from the word _reputable_ before he got to _Red Guards_.

Though, with Athos too often as his guide, he was not quite sure he managed.

An echoing silence followed, making the large space feel swollen.

With delicacy, Porthos cleared his throat, pushing words forth with his passionless gaze directed at the wall. "It is no less than what my esteemed captain would request, if the matter were to go before the king."

Richelieu's stare sharpened. Like Athos bringing to point his finest blade.

Though he didn't look, Porthos imagined he could see the flex from the cardinal's teeth.

Seconds passed like hours.

Finally, the cardinal turned away. His harsh footsteps rapped over the wide floor; a sound that reverberated towards the ceiling as he returned to his desk. There, the cardinal sat himself, piously and dismissively, while taking up a quill and a bored tone.

"You are dismissed," he said after a moment. "I will ensure your captain is _informed_ of this matter as thoroughly as is suitable."

Porthos curled his lips, ever so slightly. "Yes, Your Eminence."

"Now go."

Turning sharply on his heel, Porthos exhaled, marking each step towards the exit of the large room with unhurried precision.

Finally, having escaped out the door into the hallway, he closed his eyes and turned into the corridor, assured and grateful when his ensuing stumble dropped him directly into the arms of Athos and Aramis.

He wondered if they realized how exactly in sync their exhales were, as the both of them breathed against him in relief, closing the gaps around him and drawing his arms across their shoulders with coordinated grace.

"'m fine," he mumbled at them, resulting in disbelieving harmonized huffs.

"Really," he continued, and smiled, even while his eyes stayed closed as they moved him farther towards their freedom. "And don't worry. If the witnesses are pressed, they'll say the Red Guards were as thick into it as any — an' Richelieu can't have that. If I was dueling, he knows, so were they. He can't afford to have their reputation diminished in the king's eyes. And the cardinal knows the king would insist. If he hangs me — he'd have to sentence his guard to the same."

"Don't forget," cautioned Athos, moving them onward, "the value he places upon his guard is not the same as that which Treville, nor even the king, places upon us. One day, the cardinal might find the trade-off acceptable if it meant watching one of us hang."

Aramis hummed. "Oppressive as he may be, the cardinal's vendettas against us are entrapped in the threat we pose to his power over the king. They're not personal. He's despicable, but practical."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Porthos snorted, unsure which of his friends he was truly agreeing with. Surely both of them. Or neither.

Behind his back, one of Aramis's hands groped up over his shoulder, reaching under the collar of his studded doublet to touch gently at his neck. "His head's still bleeding," he said, and clearly not to Porthos.

Porthos hissed. The touch was gentle, but the pain was real. He prized his eyes open just long enough to see Athos snapping a clean handkerchief out of his front pocket and passing it to Aramis.

"We're lucky this was the worst of it," Athos said. "And that he didn't simply drop at the cardinal's feet before being dragged off to hang."

"Fortuitous that he did not," Aramis acknowledged.

A moment later, Porthos felt the cloth being held to his hairline, even while they walked. They were moving, hurried, but at a pace his unsteady balance could maintain, particularly with the support of his friends. He let his eyes droop closed again, bowing involuntarily into Aramis's shoulder.

"Although, you must admit," continued Aramis, catching and re-balancing Porthos's weight, "it was a fine performance our friend gave. I do so love the disquiet that emerges in the cardinal's voice when he knows he's been outplayed."

He sounded proud in a way that Porthos could tell was making Athos glare. At both of them.

Still, he couldn't help the rise of his own grin in response, nor the laugh that escaped, regardless of the way it compounded his headache.

A step later, from behind the safety of his eyelids, he decided Athos's glare must have been primarily directed at Aramis rather than himself, as Aramis swiftly offered up capitulation. "Of course, Treville will be unhappy."

Athos grunted, a motion that bumped against Porthos's ribs. "Oh will he?" he muttered, wry and sharp. "In this instance, we were lucky — let's do not forget that. One of these days, the cardinal may very well find a way to hang us. One of these days, he won't be bluffing."

Porthos forced his eyes open, just in time to help navigate the stairs. "Hey now," he protested lightly. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I may not always be the best judge of character, but I can always read a bluff."

Beside him, Aramis very nearly cackled. "One of your most beautiful gifts, my friend. I shall never forget the look on Bernard's face when you produced his own set of cards in your hand."

Stopping so completely that Porthos and Aramis had no choice but to stop with him, Athos glowered.

"'course, I didn't think he'd take his offense as far as he did," Porthos conceded quickly.

"That's the part you judge much better when you're drunk," Athos said severely, and continued moving them on.

"That acknowledged," said Aramis, pushing his luck, like always, "Can we now simply recognize that it was a beautiful fight. We haven't had a fight that satisfying in ages."

From the angle of his slump, Porthos watched Athos crack an involuntary smile at Aramis's wistfulness, just as he knew he would.

And then, Porthos giggled. Perhaps the head injury was making him dizzier than he imagined. He bit down on an outright laugh remembering how Aramis had 'accidentally' knocked a chair into the pathway of Torgeu and Gesvres, who'd thought they'd been taking Athos by surprise. Just before all hell broke loose.

In response, Athos _growled_.

"Yes, we know, we need to be more careful and one day … et cetera and onward, Athos. Thankfully, not today," said Aramis, gathering Porthos more closely about his arm. "Then again," he continued, speaking into Porthos's hair, "I could have done without that bottle getting smashed over your head."

"Me too," Porthos mumbled.

Athos sighed, tightening his own grip and closing the gap between them. Enough that Porthos could feel Athos's scruff against his ear. "Can we at least agree we will try to abstain from engaging with any Red Guards for a least a—"

"Week," Aramis supplied. "I think we can manage that."

"Month," Athos growled.

"Very well," sighed Aramis dramatically, clearly teasing. Lightly, he jostled Porthos's arm.

"Agreed," Porthos mumbled. "Won't even try to take their money for games ... for a few days, at least."

Aramis laughed and Porthos could feel Athos rolling his eyes. Strongly.

"Treville will be unhappy," Athos mocked, nevertheless matching Aramis breath for breath as Porthos felt their ribs move evenly against his own. He could tell they were beyond the palace grounds, weaving into the city. Towards the garrison. Towards home.

"Yes he will be. For a time," Aramis agreed. Then, turning his head, Porthos felt a brief brush of lips against his curls.

x


	5. "I heard you broke a window."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early series. Helplessness is not truly an emotion Athos can live with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to some Aramis angst with this one.

 

* * *

_**"I heard you broke a window."** _

-

"No, damn you!" Straining against the bars, Athos stepped back only to surge forward and slam his palm against the bracing. So hard was the hit it was a wonder the bones in his hand didn't break. "You touch him again and there will not be enough left of you for the king to hang!"

A laugh rang out in response.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, ducking his head towards his knees as another kick connected with Aramis's body.

Aramis grunted—pitiful and strained—and d'Artagnan wished he could close his ears as well, if only to bring reprieve to the helpless abyss expanding in his chest.

He couldn't though—wouldn't—and was forced to note how Aramis's grunts were growing weaker, making d'Artagnan flinch with each rattling gasp for air.

Batting the bars, Athos swore, and didn't look away from what was happening in front of him.

Not even once.

x

Later, with sickly moonlight bleeding down into their cell and across Athos's back, d'Artagnan finally breached the heavy silence they'd settled into. "I'm the one that thinks with my emotions, remember?" His voice rasped as though he'd been the one banging at the bars, bloodying his own hands as he rattled their cage and screamed at their captors.

In the disquiet, Athos rolled his forehead against the iron, dragging his gaze away from the unconscious heap in the center of the space on the other side. "And I told you we were more alike than you knew," he answered. His voice was raw from the yelling and it did something dangerous to the chasm in d'Artagnan's chest.

Athos blinked as he turned his head, too-accurately reading d'Artagnan's expression, and backed away from the words and his inadvertent admission. "If I'm yelling—at the very least Aramis has something to focus on, other than the…" He looked away. "He knows we're with him."

It felt like truth wrapped in the most obvious of lies, but d'Artagnan wasn't about to call him on it. He asked the more difficult question instead. The one he couldn't stop from asking, even though he wanted to. "When will they return?"

Not _will they_.

Not _if they_.

When.

They both knew it was _when_.

Even Aramis, currently unconscious, knew it was _when_.

"We have a few hours yet. They need their rest, after all." Athos's voice rasped with undisguised bitterness. "And they'll want…"

"They'll want Aramis rested also," d'Artagnan finished dully. "Awake."

Athos dipped his head.

x

Deep in the early morning hours, Aramis went out again, rolling close enough to the bars when the interrogators left him for Athos to finally be able to touch his fingers.

They knew he was alive by the disconcerting grate in his breathing, but that was not a comfort. Not truly.

"How long?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos lifted his head, something scary in his face that made d'Artagnan want to recoil. "How long?"

"How long will they keep up with him like this?"

Athos looked away, pressing his fingers to Aramis's wrist. "Until he talks."

D'Artagnan shook his head. His heart ached. "He can't last forever."

"He will never give Porthos up. Not ever." Athos ducked his head as he said it, resting it against the bars. "And unfortunately they know he's the only one with the information they want."

 _Then he'll die,_ d'Artagnan thought, and shivered, not saying it aloud. He wished not to have conjured it at all.

He stared through the bars at Aramis's wild hair, and wished that he could take it back.

x

"Listen to me," Aramis whispered.

"Don't speak," Athos commanded.

"Athos… they'll be… back... soon."

"I know," Athos answered, impatiently gentle. "Rest now. Just rest."

"Don't tell…"

"Listen to him," d'Artagnan pressed, not wanting to hear whatever it was Aramis thought he had to say. "Rest. We'll get out of here soon."

"Listen!" Aramis growled, wispy and weak as it was. "Don't tell… Porthos… they killed me… for his… for his… for him. Just... tell… tell him… I was… difficult… as a prisoner... and so they… and so. He'll believe that."

"Quiet," Athos hushed, maneuvering his tentative grip up to the crook of Aramis's elbow, where he could brush his thumb over the skin through the torn shirt. "Rest now. Just rest."

x

Athos looked ashen, even with the rage on his face. His strength didn't lessen as he beat a palm against the bars giving them a violent rattle. "Leave him alone," he hissed, in such a deadly, commanding voice, that the men on the other side actually seemed to give pause, if only for a moment. Then they were back at it, dragging Aramis up again, draping him into a chair.

"You will get the wheel for this," d'Artagnan promised, standing with Athos and kicking the bars. "Broken into pieces before you hang. You'll be hunted through the countryside by every soldier in the king's employ." The men ignored him, and he swallowed, slowing his tirade when he realized Aramis was staring at him, eyes dark and full of meaning.

He swallowed again and watched Aramis's eyes tick over to Athos and hold for a long second. When they slid back to him, d'Artagnan gave a nod, tamping down the desperate sob rising through his chest.

"Speak now," one of the interrogators commanded, standing over Aramis and drawing a pistol. He leveled it at Aramis's forehead. "This will be your final opportunity. After this moment, we meet next in purgatory."

Aramis closed his eyes, closed his mouth, and, struggling to draw himself up, leaned his forehead into the barrel.

" _Aramis_ ," Athos said. It sounded like a prayer and d'Artagnan felt his heart clench.

"So be it," proclaimed the interrogator.

A shot rang out. A spray of blood. A toppling as the man with the pistol dropped to the floor like an axed tree.

"Purgatory's a long way off for him yet," said Porthos, stumbling into the room with clear wounds of his own. In his hand he flipped the barrel, bashing the heel into the head of the other man standing as Aramis's guard. "At very least, he won't be going there today, you arrogant bastards."

x

Aramis was sleeping. Swathed in cooling cloths and rolled onto a bed they'd found.

Athos had taken point there, tending him in silence after helping d'Artagnan wrap the worst of the bleeding wounds on Porthos's leg and shoulder. He hadn't spoken since their rescue, had said nothing to Porthos beyond a quietly communicative kiss to his head, and d'Artagnan had to wonder whether all the shouting he'd done throughout Aramis's ordeal had rendered him incapable, or whether he just didn't have the words.

"It was bad this time, wasn't it?" Porthos said, as d'Artagnan handed him a cup of water. He was leaning against the wall in a propped-back chair, bandaged leg stretched onto a stool d'Artagnan dug up from their cell. He was watching Athos near Aramis's bed, observing the stillness of the two of them.

D'Artagnan rose and looked before taking a breath. "Let's just say, for a moment there, I thought I might lose all three of you."

Porthos looked up, held his dark gaze, then stared at the other two. "That bad."

"Bad enough." D'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair. His throat felt like it wanted to close. "I'm so glad… how did you even get here?"

"Providence," Porthos whispered. "Aramis's God isn't through with us yet, it would seem. Not any of us, I don't think."

Across the way, Aramis coughed, making a pained sound in the process. Athos bowed forward, his rasping voice whispering something indecipherable as he threaded a hand through Aramis's hair.

Something uncoiled in d'Artagnan stomach, and he sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted by an astounding measure. Releasing himself, he slumped into the chair at Porthos's elbow. "Thank god for that, then," he said, and slowly felt Porthos give his shoulder a pat.

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was the most obvious, down to the wire, cliché rescue in the book, and absolutely everyone saw it coming, but I couldn't help it. Also, yeah, normally, I dislike stories where one of my favorite characters is literally insensate the whole time so as to be practically absent from the story, so I feel a little bad for doing that with Aramis here, but I hope no one minded overly much.


	6. "He looks happy."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the one time they spilled it all freely.

* * *

_**"He looks happy."** _

-

"Thank you, that will do," Treville rumbled absently, unrolling a piece of parchment from the stack of communiqué below his blotter and dipping his quill without looking up. "We'll say no more of it."

Aramis contemplated the dismissal evenly, rubbing a slow thumb across his face, towards the sore spot near the end of his eyebrow. Drawing a decisive breath, he straightened, abandoned his muddy hat to the corner of Treville's desk and turned to Porthos. "I think we should demonstrate," he said.

Sagely, Porthos nodded, clapping his back. "Good idea—I mean, how else could he get the full picture?" Tossing his own hat, Porthos stepped back, beginning to rearrange the chairs.

Treville sighed and continued writing. "No, thank you. I don't need a demonstration."

"D'Artagnan, you can be Athos," Aramis proclaimed, setting his hands to d'Artagnan's shoulders to shift him around.

Treville dipped his pen in the inkwell. "I've already heard the story," he continued wearily. "The less I know from here forward the better, I imagine."

D'Artagnan frowned, flicking his gaze at Athos's bland lean in the office doorway. "Why doesn't Athos be Athos?"

"Athos doesn't like demonstrations," Aramis explained, nudging d'Artagnan a touch more to the left. He lifted his eyebrows at Porthos. "About here, wouldn't you say?"

"About right, yeah. Which means I was here. You and d'Artagnan were over there, with Athos between us." Porthos scrubbed at the stubble along his jaw as he evaluated, grimacing when he encountered a dried clump of mud. Shaking it off, he pressed on, waving his hand. "Door out to the balcony'll represent where the dock meets the river bank. The captain's desk here'll represent the border of the river with the dock where the barge came up. Chairs are the docking posts."

"Excellent," said Aramis. "Athos, you can portray Clement."

D'Artagnan blinked. "But you just said—"

Laconically, Athos nodded.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "Very well, then, who's going to portray me?"

"You were standing over here and, frankly, you didn't say very much. I'll be both of us," Aramis assured. "Right, then—Pothos, shall we begin with you?"

Subtly, Athos cleared his throat. "Perhaps a prologue is in order."

"No, thank you, I don't need a prologue," Treville countered.

"Of course. Quite right, Athos." Aramis straightened, digging deep for his best orator's voice. "And so it happened that upon one particular and mild spring day, with the changing wind hinting at the approach of a new storm—"

Athos coughed. "Perhaps a _shorter_ prologue is in order."

Aramis stopped, showed Athos half a smile, and relaxed his stance a fraction. "Of course. Then." He took a breath. "As you may remember, Captain, quite recently, four of the very finest Musketeers in all of France were sent to retrieve a marked letter being carried by a trusted messenger from the deathbed of the Marquis de Ancenis."

Treville finally flicked his gaze up, if only briefly. "It was yesterday, Aramis. I remember."

"Then you will also remember that after collecting it, we were meant to turn it over to a contingent of designated stewards elected from the Cardinal's Guard, who would follow with it down the river to its destination. A letter which some believed would exonerate the Marquis's son of the murder of his cousin, reinstating him as heir."

"Which I did not believe would be the case," said Porthos.

"Which," Aramis repeated, "Porthos did not believe would be the case."

Treville exhaled. "I remember. Yesterday again, wasn't it?"

"Here then we move to the next part of the story, where our intrepid musketeers, having _masterfully_ completed the first portion of their errand, were met early upon the road by that _reputedly_ esteemed member of the Cardinal's Guard—Clement."

"An insultingly reprehensible and conniving individual," d'Artagnan added dryly.

Aramis swung his head around. "That's what Athos said."

"I know," d'Artagnan answered, slowly and with annoyance, "I'm him."

Porthos grinned widely, patting d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Good man."

Treville lifted his eyes to the heavens. Abandoning his quill entirely, he leaned back in his chair. "Gentlemen, I'm aware of the—shall we say, disagreement—that occurred between you and the Red Guard when you reached the river. If the Cardinal is disinclined to press the issue, I'd just as soon not be privy to the details."

Aramis felt his eyebrow twitch, felt the ache in his knee throb steadily, and the soggy, clogged feeling in the heel of his left boot scrape over his skin in irritation as he moved. "In this case, Captain, it may be that you'll find them useful," he said in his most easygoing voice.

Treville appeared to consider this skeptically. Looking past Aramis, he gave Athos's featureless expression a moment of contemplation, then directed the bare edge of a tolerant nod in Aramis's direction.

Accepting the cue for what it was, Aramis pressed on. "Having located us, Clement, of course, joined us for the final stretch of the journey." Aramis gestured to d'Artagnan. "And, as Athos had made his opinion regarding the man known, and we were inclined to agree with him, we took the opportunity to ride ahead apace enough so as to grant ourselves a moment of privacy, which we utilized to discuss the merits of arranging some sort of fatal accident upon the road."

D'Artagnan groaned and dropped his head forward, then rolled it to give Aramis a sideways look.

"We might have done better to leave that part out," Porthos bartered in an undertone that really wasn't.

"Full disclosure," countered Aramis importantly. "Lends credibility to the telling."

Heavily patient, Treville said nothing.

Swiftly, Aramis levied the narrative. "Regardless of these musings, Clement regained our pace and we carried on, everyone of us without mishap, suspiciously accidental, or otherwise, until we were able to dismount above the rarely-used docking port at de Hasard. From this position, we could see that, indeed, the barge with Clement's cohorts was already on approach."

"Bertran was standing above the rake," added Porthos. "Had his flag out, and the rope."

"As we cleared the crest below the trees, we could see that recent water surges along the river had left the planks and moorings of the dock muddy and the tie-offs and post-ropes clogged. Assuming Clement might wish to take charge in aiding his fellows into dock, we graciously gestured him forward. At which point—" Aramis paused there and turned his head to the door, nodding at Athos.

"At which point, as Clement, I believe I gave the impression that I didn't want my shoes to get dirty," Athos explained from his extant lean.

D'Artagnan frowned. "I believe what he said was, _'That is a commoners' job.'_ "

"Therefore implying he didn't wish to sully his boots," said Aramis.

D'Artagnan folded his arms grudgingly, nudging Porthos with his elbow. "I might have done just as well portraying Clement. I remember his lines."

"Ah," Aramis shot back, "but Athos retains the keener understanding of his motivations, which more importantly underlie the story. Besides, with the way we framed the scene, Athos was already where Clement was standing at the entry to the dock."

Treville made a pointed sound, low in his throat. "Gentlemen? If I am to play spectator to this performance, I'd prefer the presentation of the final act rather than the dress rehearsal, if you please."

Aramis made questioning gestures at d'Artagnan, who held his hands up in response. "I'll be Athos," he conceded. "Obviously I remember his lines too."

Exhaling blithely, Aramis faced forward to resume. "Realizing that all four of us, individually, or as a collective, are too uncommon to be considered common in any sense, but nevertheless, as we do not fear any such work, nor the prospect of getting our shoes dirty, we four stepped onto the dock, while Clement lurked against the exit column."

Here, Porthos distanced himself from the others, moving to the chair beyond the corner of Treville's desk.

"Porthos approached the first docking post," Aramis described, "in an attempt to clear it of the old rope if he could. D'Artagnan crossed in front of me towards the second in the other direction. Athos stood on my left. And from there we watched the barge approach."

"Rope's stuck," said Porthos, in the voice of one delivering a line as he fiddled with the empty chair. He waved out at the corner of the room. "They'll just have to tie over what's here and de-mud the rope later." He looked back at the others as he talked, then frowned, staring at Aramis's suddenly unmoving face.

D'Artagnan, pointedly noticing Porthos's gaze, turned and stepped softly forward, catching Aramis's elbow. "What do you hear?" he asked in a fair approximation of Athos's graveled whisper.

Aramis looked back at him, at d'Aragnan-as-Athos, then beyond, catching Porthos's eye. "I'm uncertain, but it's a sound that a dock of this material shouldn't make. The creaks are off."

Treville drew his eyebrows in, peering past the scene to the actual Athos. "The creaks were off? You dueled with the Red Guards on a muddy dock because the creaks were off?"

Athos did not answer him directly, but he did speak, taking over as narrator. "Then Porthos said—"

"I don't hear anything, but I… I smell dry powder. Niter and sulfur. But I don't—"

"Get off the dock," ordered Aramis, drawing his pistol in a reflexive gesture. "Get back."

"The barge is coming. Catch the rope," said Athos-as-Clement.

"No! Step back!" ordered d'Artagnan-as-Athos. Aramis took a moment to be impressed with the way d'Artagnan had caught the gravelly quality of this moment also, admiring his fair approximation of Athos's shout. "D'Artagnan! Porthos! Leave it! Get off the dock!"

Aramis felt d'Artagnan's hand dig into his arm, as Athos's had, and took it as his next cue, blankly firing his drawn pistol into Treville's floor. There was no ball in it, but the spark and smoke rattled the air, and he went down to his knees with a grunt, pulling d'Artagnan with him.

"Aramis!" Porthos lurched forward, the sudden, ashen color of his skin through the hazy room telling Aramis he may have forgotten for a moment that the shot was for effect, and lost himself to the scene. Seconds later, he was on his knees near Aramis's hip, his color returned. But his relief was heavy, and his hands trembled on Aramis's shoulder as he frowned at himself. "Was the shot strictly necessary?" he growled. "There are other ways to feign a blast."

From the floor, Aramis clenched his teeth and nodded. "Strictly," he bit.

"Necessary," Athos finished.

Aramis rolled his head, looking to the doorway where Athos's voice echoed, but where he no longer stood. Looking to the edge of the broken dock, and the last space of solid ground, where Clement had no longer been, having stepped back into the shadows as they went into the water, as Athos had done now.

Quickly rolling his head in the other direction, Aramis found their captain was standing upright, fingertips pressed lightly to the desktop. Slowly, he watched the truth settle over Treville's face as he eyed Athos's dark outline out upon the balcony.

"There was no fight, no duel, and no accident that caused the dock to give way," Treville stated.

Athos said nothing, but he stepped forward, fully into the room, reaching down with Porthos to help first d'Artagnan, and then Aramis up to standing.

"And the letter?" Treville pressed.

"Porthos was carrying what we received from the messenger in a tar-treated bowgett inside his doublet," Athos explained. "It survived the near-drowning, but when we made shore, you might say we felt obliged to pass it on, as per our orders. We assume Clement and the others intend to damage whichever parts of the letter they must for it to reflect what they wish it to contain, or will report it damaged in its entirety, if they find the contents cannot be manipulated. Happily claiming, of course, that all such impairment occurred when the dock failed, and took the four of us with it. As you know, the port at de Hasard was old, and our claims of the true cause of its demise are unlikely to be heard."

"Did you know, Captain, that the Marquis's young accused son, and Clement, were at one time rumored to be friends?" added Aramis, watching Treville's face.

Gratifyingly, it had gone dark. There was a quiet, seething glint in his eye that Aramis both loved and hated to see.

"There is... one more piece of this tale to tell," Aramis offered, once he saw it there. "If you will recall, we noted at the beginning, that Porthos did not believe the letter would exonerate the young heir, and if it would not, we theorized that someone might attempt to destroy it. Therefore, as we rode to collect it, a plan of subterfuge seemed prudent. When we met him, the messenger was carrying more than one marked letter in the name of his recently departed lord. Thus forming a plan, Athos accepted from him that which he deemed least important of the lot, and then sent him down the river to the tribunal in the care of his own guard with the actual letter and the rest."

Putting a hand on his shoulder, Athos squeezed and stepped forward. "I accepted and believed that if the Cardinal was angry at the result of this change in plan, and defying of orders, that would certainly be nothing new to us. And worth the risk. Besides, with the Marquis's seal on each letter in the messenger's care, our collection of the wrong one might have been said to be an honest mistake."

"Like those pesky mishaps that occasionally happen on the road," deadpanned Treville.

Aramis couldn't help it. He winked. "Precisely."

"It's safe to assume the real letter should be there by now," d'Artagnan offered softly.

Sighing heavily, Treville nodded, collecting his cloak.

"Thank you. I'll take care of it." He strode towards the door, then turned to pause. "Gentlemen, rousing performance. Aramis?"

"Yes?"

"Fewer dramatics next time, if you please?"

Aramis inclined his head with a small smile as their leader walked out the door. "Captain," he acknowledged, even while behind their leader's retreating back, the four of them grinned.

x

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got away from me a bit, and took on a life of its own. I'm not sure it successfully overcomes the confusion factor in the overlay of events, or the excess of exposition inherent in the telling, but I went for it. Obviously.


End file.
